Macbeth: How does your patient, doctor? Doctor: Not so sick, my lord, as she is troubled with thick-coming fancies that keep her from rest. Macbeth: Cure her of that! Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon her heart. Doctor: Therein the patient must minister to himself.

Dissembling harlot, thou art false in all!

Though patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod.

And, if you love me, as I think you do, let's kiss and part, for we have much to do

'Twas merry when You wagered on your angling, when your diver Did hang a salt fish on his hook, which he With fervency drew up.

Farewell! a long farewell to all my greatness!

I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness, And from that full meridian of my glory I haste now to my setting.